


The Festival of Weeks

by cosmic_medusa



Series: We Three Kings [16]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:20:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27910657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmic_medusa/pseuds/cosmic_medusa
Summary: Prior to the events ofWe Three Kingsand all that follows. Sam's signed himself into rehab and undergone the initial withdrawal. Dean and Cas bring what comforts they can.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: We Three Kings [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1306616
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

_Count off seven weeks from the time you begin to put the sickle to the standing grain._ —Deuteronomy 16:9

  
  
  
Sam was in lock-down for twelve-days.  
  
That was twelve-days of no visitors, no phone calls, no e-mails. Twelve days of sweating and screaming and sneezing and scratching, nurses helping him eat and bathe and use the bathroom, doctors monitoring his vitals and issuing restraints, when necessary.  
  
Twelve days Cas had to deal with Dean. Sober.  
  
While he didn’t want his partner to redevelop a dependence on alcohol, he rather wished he hadn’t gone cold turkey. Dean was frantic with worry: reading everything he could find on withdrawal, studying up on medications and treatment plans and alternative medicines. When he read that making small changes to an environment was helpful, he dragged Cas to Home Depot and they stocked up on paint—Dean had researched color theory, and chose a soothing sage green with white trim for the guest room. They went to Target and bought a new bedspread—white, with bits of yellow and pale blue, because Dean and had read that when combined with greens, it created an air of relaxation in a bedroom—towels, and framed Dean’s collection of vintage rock posters in their living room. They rearranged the furniture in the living room, dining room, and guest room. And, when Dean read that yellow was a color associated with anxiety, he insisted they repaint the downstairs bathroom, and return the dark blue blanket they’d bought for Rosemount with a dark green, because dark blue had been noted to invoke depression.  
  
They bought Sam new clothes. New shoes. New boxers and undershirts. They bought him books and magazines and movies. They bought frames and had pictures printed to fill them. They bought a new cellphone.  
  
Cas couldn’t say he agreed with the ancient ideas of color theory, and he wondered if all their new purchases would enable Sam’s ongoing co-dependence on his brother to fix his mistakes, rather than support Sam’s recovery, but he knew Dean was desperate to feel he was actively participating in his brother’s treatment, so he quietly paid with the debit card linked to his trust, although Dean insisted on splitting the bill.  
  
In the meantime, Cas pleaded with Anna and Peter, and together the pair graciously accommodated all his shift requests so he was off work the same time as Dean. When they weren’t working on home improvement projects, he took Dean to the movies, or to diners, or for dinner, or even just sat by his side while Dean drove out of the city and let the Impala guide them up and down roads they'd never explored.  
  
And, to Dean’s credit, he did try, at least every other day, to ask Cas how he was feeling. He’d been trying, so hard, since his recent vow of sobriety, to be more appreciative and supportive, but Cas knew his boyfriend’s emotions were already well beyond their limits, and he deftly hid his own fears and shifted the conversation back to Dean’s.  
  
And then Rosemount called and said Sam had been moved and placed on bed rest, but was cleared for visitors, and they did nothing but lay awake holding each other, watching the night pass, waiting for the morning their little family could reunite.

***

  
  
Dean packed up all their new supplies in laundry baskets and timed the drive to Rosemount so they were striding through the doors at the exact moment visiting hours began. They waited patiently while the nurses searched each and every item for anything labeled contraband, and then gave the okay for them to head upstairs.   
  
They passed Alan on their way down the hall. He greeted them somberly, told them Sam had been a model patient, but was refusing to leave his bed, and had been having terrible nightmares that had disturbed his neighbors. They’d indicated that the nurses’ were to check him more frequently at night, and were working to get him on medication that would help ease the immediate symptoms, and the ongoing anxiety and depression.  
  
“It’s gonna take some time,” he assured them. “On average, medication can take about five to seven weeks to kick in. It’s even tougher with those coming off bio-chemical altering substances.” At Dean’s devastated face, he softened his voice. “Sam’s been asking for you. I know it’ll help a great deal that you’re here. Just try and be patient, alright? I’m organizing his schedule, and you’ll meet his primary therapist soon. She’ll handle your family sessions as well. Try and keep things light, okay?”  
  
“Thank you, Doctor Montgomery,” Cas said. He’d decided it would be helpful to refer to the doctor by his full title, thus showing he respected him as a colleague and wasn’t going to raise any feathers about Alan’s treatment plans for Sam.  
  
“If you have questions, you can call me. I’ll probably be in the beginning of your sessions from time to time. Physically, though, I promise you Sam’s on the mend. Anytime you want to see his charts, Dr. Morgan, I can make those available, pending Sam’s permission.” He smiled warmly. “And please, both of you, call me Alan. Sam does. It’s best if everyone here is on a first name basis.”  
  
“Thank you, Alan,” Cas said, at the same time a voice bellowed from down the hall, “Dr. Al! Bring it in, bro!” Alan gave a long-suffering sigh.  
  
“Please don’t _ever_ call me that,” he said, before turning and snapping “Ash, get the hell off my ward!”  
  
“I got a new Alpha and Omega!”  
  
Dean and Cas left the banter and made it the rest of the way down the hall. Sam’s room had a number outside, as well as a handwritten placard that said “Welcome, Sam!” And had been signed by seemingly everyone on the floor. This floor was strictly male: the women were housed one floor up, and visitation was forbidden between the floors. Groups that mingled the sexes were held on the third floor, where the offices of the therapists and doctors were located, and attempting to engage in a romantic or sexual actively qualified the participants for expulsion. This was a place for help and healing, the literature explained, not a place for Adam the cocaine fiend met Eve the crackwhore.  
  
At least, that was how Dean had explained it. Rosemount, of course, had issued a far kinder, and more politically correct explanation.  
  
Sam’s room was small, with a slightly larger than a single bed, a dresser, mirror, and nightstand. Sam had his back to the door, and was curled up in tight little S, seeming far smaller than his twenty-six years.  
  
“Hey Sammy,” Dean said with forced cheerfulness. “Calvary’s here, bro.”  
  
Dean and Cas set down their baskets. Dean produced the brand new blanket he’d bought especially for treatment—he’d already declared it would be disposed of afterward, part of his environmental correction campaign—one that was green plaid, thick, soft, and amazingly warm.  
  
“Wait ‘till you try this out,” Dean said, draping it over his brother’s shivering frame. “Cas was practically rolling around it in like an overgrown cat.”  
  
“Don’t listen to him, Sam,” Cas said. “The sounds he made when he touched it would be rated R.”  
  
“It’s awesome. And it’s some sort of micro-green-hippie developed technology, or no birds or Chinese died in making it.”  
  
“ _Dean_.”  
  
“It’s not racist!”  
  
Sam just blinked at his brother. He was very pale, very thin, and clearly still ill. His hands shook as he pulled the blanket around his shoulders. Dean did all his usual tricks--teased, tangled his fingers in his brother’s hair, fussed with the blankets, bitched about customers at the garage. Sam just stared at the wall. "Dean," he finally managed, his voice strained and hoarse. "I can't get warm."  
  
Cas was stunned by his boyfriend's response: he kicked off his boots, yanked back the covers, and stretched himself out alongside his brother. Sam nestled his head under his chin and began to cry, weak, exhausted tears. Dean just hushed him and stroked his hair.  
  
"It's okay, Sammy," he whispered.  
  
"I'm sorry—"  
  
"Shhhh," Dean leaned his chin on top of his brother's head and began to hum the chorus of "smoke on the water."  
  
Cas wasn’t sure what to do. So he busied himself unpacking the magazines Dean had bought, the rock mix tapes he’d recorded himself, the junk food, and books. He unpacked the sweats and jeans and shirts, toothpaste and toothbrushes and shaving cream, although Alan had told them they were forbidden razors. He lined up the framed photos of the three of them, one of Mary Winchester, and one Cas had taken, of Sam fast asleep with his mouth slightly ajar, slumped on the sofa, head on Dean's shoulder while Dean flipped off Cas and the camera.  
  
All the while, Sam cried quietly, and Dean hummed. When Cas finished unpacking, he circled around the bed and perched awkwardly on the edge, laying a hand on top of Sam’s army of blankets. He laid a gentle hand on his forehead—testing his temperature—than his throat—checking his pulse—before giving him a light pat on the back. Sam's breath hitched and a tear slid down his cheek.  
  
“I’m sorry, Dean. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” Sam said.   
  
“I know, buddy. It’s okay. Everything’s gonna be okay.” Dean rubbed Sam’s back, up through his sweaty, greasy tangles of overgrown brown hair.“We gotcha. We’re gonna get you back on your feet. Get you fixed up and healthy and ready to come home.”  
  
“Don’t hate me,” Sam pleaded, switching mantras. “Please, don’t hate me. Please, don’t—”  
  
“Stop it,” Dean scolded, shaking him lightly. “Stop it. C’mon. Try and get some sleep. Alan said you haven’t been getting much sleep.”  
  
“I’m too cold. It hurts. It—I—I didn’t know if you were alright. I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”  
  
A muscle in Dean’s jaw jolted. “Damnit, Sam. I told you, I’m not giving up on you!”  
  
“No, Dean, not like _that_. You could have been in an accident. You could have been shot or—or the electricity in your house could have gone and you could have burned. You could—could be going home and a truck—a truck will hit you. And—and I won’t, I won’t get to say goodbye. Dean—”  
  
“ _God_ , Sammy, _please_. I need you to stop mourning me when _I’m right here._ ” Dean yanked him close. “And I’m not leaving you. Not leaving, Sammy. Not dying or walking off or drinking myself sick anymore. I’m here and I’ve gotcha, and that’s all you gotta think about. C’mon, bro. Sleep,” Dean pushed his lips near Sam’s temple and stroked his hair. “Please sleep, Sammy. Please sleep, buddy. We’re all safe here. Just relax and sleep.” Dean pulled him closer, whispered softer. “Don’t worry. I gotcha. I’ll be here, the whole time. Okay?”  
  
“I’m _sorry_.”  
  
Cas said what he’d been able to say when Sam had lost Jess: “We’ll help you. We love you, Sam.”  
  
“I’m—”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean soothed, taking over Sam’s mantra. “Yeah, Sam We’re gonna. We do. This is the worst of it. You’re off the street, out of lock-down.” He coaxed Sam’s head under his chin. “C’mon, bud. Y’gotta trust me this round. Just like you used to.”  
  
“I do! Dean—” Sam’s voice broke and he pushed close to his brother. “I’m so sorry. Please—”  
  
“Sammy— _please_.” Dean’s hand moved in his hair. “Listen to me. Clean slate—I forgive you, you forgive me. We do this together. Huh? We’ve done everything else together, we do this too.” He pulled Sam’s forehead close to his own and stroked his head. “You and me, bud. Okay?”  
  
Just like then, there wasn’t much Cas could do, but rub Sam’s back and let Dean whisper away. And, when Sam’s sobs finally died out, and Dean was quiet, petting his brother, lids dropping closed, he sat close to them both, keeping watch, ready to wake them if their troubles plagued their dreams.   
  


***

  
  
Cas could tell Alan didn’t want to chase them off. Cas also knew rules were rules, and Sam would never get better if they didn’t follow them. Even if it hurt. It would never hurt him, after all, as much as it would hurt the Winchesters.  
  
Sam and Dean had been napping, curled up together like baby twins, or newborn puppies. Sam had his floppy brown head nestled under Dean’s chin, and Dean his his arms draped loosely around his brother’s slim frame. Cas knew Dean would slug him if he were awake for those “bile-barfing” analogies of two men who could be very tough when called for, but were just sad, frightened children at heart, retreating back into the shelter of each other, where acceptance and safety and comfort could always be found.  
  
Cas hated having to wake them. Hated even more, that when he did, Sam’s eyes slid open, and he stared at Cas with devastation and confusion and betrayal, before burrowing closer to his sleeping older brother and closing them tight, wincing, as if hoping to force himself back into sleep, into the safety of Dean’s presence.  
  
Dean grumbled and shifted, causing Sam to whimper, causing Dean’s arm to tighten. Cas’ eyes stung, and he didn’t think he could bear to tell them they had to separate. He sat, quietly, an ill feeling in his stomach, when a nurse came in and shook Sam awake, smiling and gently telling him he needed to take his meds and eat something, and that visiting hours were ending soon, and his primary therapist would be by to have her first session with him.  
  
Sam replied by rolling over and pushing harder into Dean, who’d woken up during the explanation and was working on disentangling himself from his brother, patting his chest and head reassuringly as he did.  
  
"I'll be back tomorrow, bud, okay?" Dean said, when he was fully off the mattress.  
  
Sam, who’d lain there limp and silent, suddenly shot upright and gripped his brother's shirt, pulling him close to press his face into his stomach. Dean's eyes widened. "Sammy?"  
  
"Don't," he whispered, yanking his brother closer. "Don't...don't go."  
  
Dean's face fell. "I've got to, kiddo. You know that."  
  
"I—" Sam's voice broke. "I want to go home."  
  
Cas' own heart nearly broke. He couldn’t imagine what his boyfriend feels. Dean stroked his brother's hair gently.  
  
"Soon, buddy," he murmured. "Before you know it even, okay? I know it's hard. It's hard on me too. But if you don't do this you won't feel better. I _know_ you want to feel better."  
  
"I miss you," Sam sobbed. "I'm so sorry--"  
  
Dean hushed him and spends another minute petting his head. Then he takes his brother's face in his hands, pries him away, and briefly pulls their foreheads together. "I'll be back first thing tomorrow. Okay? You get some sleep." Sam nods, clutching Dean's wrists. Dean gently pulls himself away. "Lie down," he soothes, and guides his brother onto the pillows, tucking him in under his new blanket, murmuring nonsense Cas can't understand. He smoothes Sam's hair, smiles and pats him reassuringly. "First thing tomorrow, babe. Okay?"  
  
Cas' own throat is swollen.  
  
Somehow, Dean waits until they're in bed before he cries.


	2. Chapter 2

They weren’t ten minutes in to their next visit with Sam when Ellen and Bobby appeared: Ellen, carrying a huge vase of flowers; Bobby carrying a stack of _Newsweek, Time,_ and _The Economist_ : Ellen, grinning; Bobby, uneasy and vaguely annoyed.  
  
“Hi sweetie,” Ellen greets Sam, as if he were walking through her front door for dinner and not lying in bed, too weak to stand. “Sorry we didn’t make it right away. Bobby can’t keep his dates straight.”  
  
“The hell I can’t,” Bobby grumbled. He awkwardly held out the stack of magazines. “Bought you some entertainment, kid.”  
  
“And?” Ellen prompted.  
  
“And what?”  
  
“Entertainment, _and_?”  
  
Bobby gave her a ‘do I have to?’ look. Ellen jerked her head toward Sam. Bobby rolled his eyes: Ellen narrowed hers. He sighed, reached behind him, and wrestled something from under his shirt.  
  
“It’s a monkey,” he mumbled, tossing the stuffed toy into Sam’s lap.  
  
“You mean you walked all the way in here with a monkey on your back?” Dean snorted. Cas rolled his eyes. Dean grinned, insanely proud of himself, and even Sam smiled.  
  
“Thanks, Bobby. Does he have a name?”  
  
“I call him Stupid. Ellen calls him—”  
  
“Peanut. Bobby picked him out all by himself.”  
  
“You did?” Sam smiled.  
  
“Under extreme duress,” he growled, glancing at his wife. Ellen set the flowers down on Sam’s nightstand, sat on the edge of the bed, and leaned down to kiss Sam’s forehead.  
  
“How you feeling?”  
  
“I’m okay,” Sam said, in the shakiest, most unconvincing attempt of all time.  
  
“What can we get you? Bobby and Dean are gonna make a cafeteria run for us all.”  
  
“The hell we are,” Bobby and Dean said at the same time.  
  
“They are, don’t worry. Bobby knows how I like my coffee, what do you need, honey?”  
  
Sam swallowed, glanced to his brother, than back to Ellen. “I know it’s weird, but...I’ve been drinking a lot of red Gatorade.”  
  
“Okay. They’ll get you some. Cas?”  
  
“Dean knows how I take my coffee.”  
  
“Alright. You heard that. Off you go.”  
  
“What do I look like, a waiter?” Bobby snapped.  
  
“You need cash?”  
  
“I got it, _thank_ you.” Bobby glared. “Dean, c’mon. I’m not carryin’ all this alone.”  
  
“But—”  
  
“You be sure to buy something for yourself too,” Ellen said.  
  
“I—”  
  
“Get the lead out!” Bobby barked. Dean glared at everyone but Sam, who he tossed a quick smile and wink toward, before trailing after the elder man. Ellen smiled and smoothed Sam’s hair off his forehead.  
  
“So,” she began, “you want to tell me what you’re doing here?”  
  


***

  
“Wanna tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”  
  
“Vacationing, obviously,” Dean snapped, filling a large cup with black coffee and a tap of milk for Cas. He’d kill for an Irish version of his own, but he’d sworn off drinking the night he very nearly punched his damn doctor out, and intended to stick to it. Besides Sam, Cas, was the best thing to ever happen to him, and he deserved way, way better than how Dean had been treating him for the past year.  
  
“Why is it all this shit goes down and we hear it through the grapevine, instead of from you?”  
  
“Sorry, should I have sent out a mass-mailing? Maybe an e-vite?”  
  
“Quit being a dick,” Bobby barked. “We were here every day when your Daddy damn near killed the kid. We gave you that car, we co-signed your lease, hell we pretty much paid off your co-pays. And we don’t warrant a friggin’ text saying that he’s in rehab for cocaine and _heroin_?”  
  
“I’m not exactly proud of it alright?”  
  
“Well it ain’t exactly about you and your damn _pride_ , Dean.”  
  
“And it isn’t exactly about your damn need to play Daddy, Bobby!” Dean bellowed. Several patrons looked up, and the cashier raised her eyebrow at them. Bobby’s face fell with sudden hurt, and Dean felt the heavy, constant weight of depression descend once more. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry. I can’t...this has been hard.”  
  
“Because you haven’t asked for help. You never do.”  
  
“Cas helps.”  
  
“You’re an idgit, you know that?”  
  
“This is a family issue.”  
  
“We’re your family too, you dumb, selfish, sonofabitch. Get your head out of your ass and quit trying to carry the world by your lonesome. You know for a fact what you’ve been doing ain’t working. Sam may be the one who ended up in that bed, but your bags are stuffed just as full with crap you need get off your chest. And Cas—”  
  
“Leave Cas out of this,” Dean growled, feeling a surge of protection. “Yeah, me and Sam may have made our beds, but Cas didn’t sign on to lying in them with us.”  
  
“The hell he didn’t. You boys are a pair of dumb sonofabitches, but he ain’t gonna find anyone out there more loyal. Seems to me he hasn’t had much of that in his life.”  
  
“You done?” Dean asked, feeling thoroughly exhausted and wanting nothing more than to stretch out under Sam’s awesome blanket, feel his brother’s heartbeat, and know that thing only person he’d ever been good for was safe and healing against his side.  
  
“Aw...hell, kid,” Bobby sighed, and suddenly laid a light, tender hand on Dean’s cheek, his eyes damp. “Just...promise me you’re gonna listen, _really_ listen, to what these people in here are gonna be sayin’. Sam’s been looking up to you from the day he was born. There’s no better way to get him back on the right track than for you to hop on it first and give him a hand up.”  
  
Dean nodded, than struggled to clear his throat and gathered up the coffees and a Gatorade for Sam. “Let’s roll credits on this chick flick,” he mumbled. “Ellen scares me when we keep her waiting.”  
  
Bobby gave he a rough thump on the arm a tossed a twenty down on the counter. “Why do you think my watch is fifteen minutes fast?”  
  


***

  
  
Cas perched awkwardly on the heater while Ellen talked quietly to Sam. The younger Winchester didn’t seem any more open than he had on their previous visits, though he did rest the stuffed monkey on his lap and fiddle with its hands and tail while giving his usual vague half-answers. “I was sick...I was tired...I was cold...school didn’t work...Jess was gone...Jess is gone...Jess is...”  
  
And then, out of the blue, Sam shot upright, eyes widening, the monkey crushed beneath his elbows. “Is Dean coming back?” he asked.  
  
“Of course he is,” Ellen soothed.  
  
“But he’s been gone awhile. Why...why did you send him away?”  
  
“I didn’t, honey. I just thought he should have a few minutes to talk to Bobby.”  
  
“About me?”  
  
“No. About—”  
  
“He could change his mind. He could tell Bobby and Bobby would tell him not to come back.”  
  
“Tell Bobby what?”  
  
“He could realize he doesn’t have to come back. He could...not come back. He won’t come back. They don’t come back.” Sam reached up and began to tug at his hair. Cas rose and carefully crossed the room.  
  
“Sam,” he murmured, “Dean just ran to get us coffee. He’ll be back in a minute. He’s been waiting all last night and all this morning to come see you.”  
  
“They sent him away,” Sam sobbed, rocking. “They sent him away and he won’t come back.”  
  
“Of course he will. No one can keep him away, you know that. He’d never let them.”  
  
“I didn’t say goodbye. I never said—I have to—to—” Sam’s breath went from light anxiety to official, full-on hyperventilating. Ellen looked wide-eyed and shaky at Cas, but, for the first time since this mess had begun, Cas knew exactly what to do.  
  
“You’re having a panic attack,” he said, keeping his voice kind, but also calm and authoritative. “Listen to me—we’re going to breathe together, alright?” He untangled Sam’s trembling, squirming right hand from his hair and took it firmly in his own left, guiding their hands down to rest on the heaving muscles of Sam’s diaphragm. “You’re pulling and pushing your air in too fast, and it’s making everything else work harder than it needs to.” He rested his own right hand in the middle of Sam’s back, feeling the muscles shake and heart race as Sam bucked and rocked. “We’re going to put pressure on your stomach, okay?” He pushed the hand wrapped over Sam’s, steadily into his stomach, forcing the air out and refusing to let him take any back in. “Now, we’ll release slowly. Take the air in and try and hold it.” The young man fought harder, especially when his next breath came too short and Cas forced the air out once more, slowing the rhythm of his exhales. “Hold it,” he soothed, before releasing the pressure and letting him take more in. “It’s alright, I’m helping you breathe normally. Deep,” he pushed once more, forcing the air out slowly, “and easy.” He rubbed a light circle on the young man’s back, frowning as his hand brushed bumps of spine, but forcing a warm smile on his face as he forcibly regulated Sam’s air until the young man began to settle, draw in deeper, hold longer, before releasing once more.  
  
“That’s good, honey,” Ellen whispered, her eyes damp as she brushed hair off of Sam’s face.  
  
“Okay. Little deeper. Pressure,” Cas warned before pushing. Sam’s wet eyes met his, and Cas smiled as warm as he could, relieved when he saw the young man’s jaw set in determination, his focus sharpen on Cas’ instructions until, a moment later, he breathing was back to hard, but no longer frantic and uncontrolled.  
  
“Feel...sick...” Sam gasped.  
  
“Don’t worry. I’ve been covered in worse,” Cas chuckled, and Sam even managed a shaky smile before sagging, exhausted, against his shoulder. Cas knew it was safe to remove his hand—Sam’s muscles were working on their own. It was safe to pull back, pull away: Dean would be back in a moment, and he could take things from here.  
  
But Sam was relaxing, leaning on him, breathing with him, trusting him, and Cas...Cas couldn’t heal Dean’s worry or Sam’s chills or either of their grief. He couldn’t give psychotherapy or right the loss of their childhood. He couldn’t make his brothers come together or their father come home or his mother stop crying. But he could sit here, and pat Sam’s back, and push gently on his stomach, and feel his heart even its beats, and know the promise of Dean’s return would be fulfilled, and maybe, just maybe, Sam would love him for it.  


***

  
It was Monday.  
  
The ward seemed busier on Monday. Alan and Missouri, his primary therapist, had shown him schedules, and the weekends were lighter, with visiting hours pretty much all day, an open rec room, field trips for those who ranked high enough to leave the ward. Monday through Friday were groups, breaks, groups, meals, groups, sessions, groups. Everything monitored, everything regulated.  
  
Monday didn’t bring Cas and Dean—they’d promised to be by in the evening, during the one or two hours they were allowed, but in the meantime, Sam was on his own.  
  
Monday brought visitors—a guy with a mullet who talked a mile a minute; a short, dark-haired kid who told him to hang tight; a pretty blonde girl and her pouty, gothic friend; a host of other voices and faces, all armed with platitudes and pick-me-ups. Since Sam was on bedrest, therapists, meds, and meals were brought straight to him, but once he was moved, he’d be on a strict schedule, one he had to stick to regardless of how bad he felt.   
  
And all Sam had been feeling, for _weeks,_ was bad.  
  
He couldn’t remember what it felt like not to ache, not to shake, not to feel weak and cold and sick. The twelve days in lockdown had felt like years—years of muscle spasms and vomiting and uncontrollable sneezing, the feeling of his skin being on fire one moment and ice-cold the next, the damn _itching_ that made him scratch so hard they’d strapped him down to keep from making himself bleed. There were moments of kindness, when the nurses gently helped him sit up, changed his sheets, helped him to the tub and scrubbed the sweat and grime off his back. Moments when Alan would rest his hand on Sam’s arm and assure him that, although it felt terrible, his life wasn’t in any danger—that Alan wouldn’t let him go, and would be here for as long as it took to get him back on his feet.  
  
And, in the best moments, he was able to remember Dean’s promise: that as long as he fought, Dean would fight with him. The thought of being taken back, of possibly being redeemed, of being by his brother’s side, a team once more, renewed his determination not to give in.  
  
Dean was always there for him when he was sick, with soup or oatmeal, hot cocoa and blankets, story books and cartoons when Sam was young, and magazines and video games when he was older. And now, when Sam was at his sickest and his fear was at its highest, Dean was only by his side for an hour or so a day, and there was no end date. Sam had imagined going to rehab, spending a few days in hell, and then going home. Everyone was telling him he’d be here at least a month more on top of the fifteen days he’d already endured, and even that was a highly optimistic estimate. Sam might have to spend the holidays here. Dean’s birthday. His own. Cas’. He couldn’t imagine there wouldn’t be a point where everyone would throw up their hands and walk. Afterall, Sam had endangered the best, happiest, safest relationship Dean and Cas had ever had. They were their own family now.  
  
A family Sam ached to be a part of. A family he’d once assumed was his _right_.  
  
A light knock sounded on the door. Sam ignored it. If he lay still and breathed even, he found visitors let him be. If it was Alan or a nurse, they’d rouse him and mandate he do whatever they’d decided it was time for him to do, and he could bear that, but the overbearing friendliness of some of the people on the ward only made him more depressed. He hadn’t converted yet: hadn’t decided if this was for him. If Dean left him for good, he wouldn’t to do anything but find Crowley and do whatever he had to in order to score a fatal dose.  
  
“Hey Sammy,” Dean’s voice drifted over him, that low, soft, slightly gruff lullaby that washed over his pain like a balm. His brother perched on the bed behind him and reached over to brush his bangs of his forehead, smoothing Sam’s hair the way he hadn’t since he’d last been hospitalized for his suicide attempt. “Got the afternoon off. Have to work Sunday though. Thought I’d see how you were doing. Alan cleared me, since he says you’re still not getting up.”  
  
Sam felt the tears building. Swallowed, hard, trying to keep them back. “They say I could be here for months.”  
  
“There’s no pressure here, bud. Take your time. We’ll get you better.”  
  
“But...why can’t I be better at _home_ , Dean?”  
  
Dean’s hand kept moving, pads of his fingers resting lightly on his forehead, than smoothing along over his scalp, along the old, now buried, scar line, over his temple, down to the nape of his neck. Knuckles brushing lightly at his cheek before he started the soothing motion over once more.  
  
“I’m over my head here, Sammy. I don’t know how to fix this—I’ve been trying, and I just ended up running you all the faster out the door. Think it’s time we pull in the big guns.” Sam’s breath hitched. It was his worst fears confirmed.  
  
“Hey,” Dean said, assuming his authoritative tone. “Look at me.” When Sam refused, Dean rounded the bed until he sat on his left and pinned his shoulders in place, forcing Sam to stare up at him. “Listen to me. I want you to come home. I’m doing this so you _can_ come home. I’m not giving you up, you understand me?” He softened, wiped tears with his thumbs like he must have when Sam was young, too young to remember. “We’ve been through some crazy, heavy shit these past twenty-five years. And I’m up for twenty-five more. But only if you’re sticking them out with me. Huh?”  
  
“You’ve got Cas.”  
  
“I’ve known Cas for two years.”  
  
“But he’s good to you, Dean. He—”  
  
“Sammy, at no point, during _any_ relationship, did I think this was an either/or situation.”  
  
“I don’t know if I can do this.”  
  
“You can.”  
  
“I don’t know that.”  
  
“I do.”  
  
“ _How_?”  
  
“Because when you were fifteen, you dragged me into a stranger’s car and hotwired it and drove me to the ER. Because when you were twelve you sat guarding the foot of my bed with a baseball bat while taking care of my concussed ass. Because after Dad smashed your skull to pieces, you were dialing around trying to find me bits for the car. Because _you do not give up, Sammy_. And it’s what I’ve admired most about you all our lives. So the hell you’re gonna tell me you’re throwing in the towel now.” He grabbed his shoulders and squeezed, hard. “You will get through this. _We_ will get through this. You’re gonna beat this thing, I know it. If you can’t have faith in you, have faith in me. Brother knows best , huh?”  
  
Dean tried to smile, but his own eyes were wet. Sam forced himself to sit up, hard as it was, and wrapped his arms around Dean, pressing his face to his brother’s chest, hearing his heart beat, feeling the rise and fall of each steady, solid breath, feeling the amulet he’d given Dean so many, many years ago bump lightly against his forehead. Dean rested a hand firmly on his back while the other stroked his hair.  
  
“I love you, Dean.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Dean chuckled. “The sun will come out tomorrow, bitch. ‘Cause it always does. And I’m gonna be right there with it.”   
  
Sam laughed, wetly, into his brother’s shirt. “You’re a dumb, corny, jerkface.”   
  
“Whatever. You can’t lose me, Sammy. You _can’t_. So quit trying. We’ve got each other. We lost sight of that for a bit, but it always comes back. We got a lot of shit to rock and a lot of years to do it.” He stroked gently over Sam’s hair, pulled him tighter, perching his chin over Sam’s head and rubbing a warm circle on his back. “I’m not gonna letcha go,” he murmured. “In fact—”  
  
He pulled back enough to pull the leather thong off from around his neck and hang it over Sam’s, adjusting it tenderly and patting the charm lightly over his brother’s heart. Sam looked from it, to his elder brother, and back again.  
  
“Don’t you want it anymore?” he asked, voice cracking.  
  
“Of course I do. That’s exactly why I’m passing it off. Remember what you told me?”  
  
Sam reached up and clenched it in his fist. “I know you’ll find me,” he mumbled.  
  
“No. You know we’ll find each other. I find you, you find me. I come back, you come back.”  
  
“But...it can only be given in a moment of _faith_ , Dean.”  
  
“I’ve got faith in you, Sam. You’re gonna bounce back. You always do. And when you don’t remember, you hang on tight to this.”  
  
Sam lost his battle with tears and sobbed as he hadn’t since collapsing on the street. Dean laid himself along the other side of the bed, gently nudging Sam over, tucked his knees into the back of Sam's, rested one warm, strong arm over his head and wound the other over his torso, stretching silently when Sam seized his fingers and pulled the hand down against his own heart, bumping over the amulet. Just like when they were kids, and Sam was sick, or hurt, or freezing cold, or scared. Just like when Jess died, and the grief would slam him so hard he'd thought he'd die from the racking sobs in his stomach. Just like he'd longed for when he'd fled Crowley.  
  
"It's okay, Sammy," Dean murmured, close to his ear. "We're gonna be okay, little brother. You're over the worst of it. We'll get through the rest of it."  
  
He clung to Dean like he was a quarter of his own age, like Dean’s sole job was to hug and comfort him. Dean was so _constant_ : his breathing, the way he held Sam close, the way he smoothed his hair, the tone of his voice, the gentle words of “I gotcha,” and “you’re okay” and “we’re okay” and “I’ll take care of you” echoing across all his years, every time Sam was terrified and lost and needing something he never understood until his big brother pulled him close and brought him home.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean was running down a long hall. White tile under his feet, yellow walls swiping past his vision. Running and running, hearing Sammy cry and cry. He’d promised. He’d _sworn_ nothing bad was ever ever ever _ever_ going to happen to that dumb kid.  
  
 _Dean. Dean. Dean, c’mon._  
  
 _Trying, Sammy. I’m trying, I’m running, I’m—_  
  
He _couldn’t_. The harder he ran, the slower he moved. The further he reached, the farther away from the door he fell. The louder he tried to scream, the more air deserted him.  
  
 _Dean. Dean, c’mon. It’s okay_  
  
 _Okay._ Okay _? He’d lost_ Sam _. He’d lost his Dad. He’d lost his_ home _. And it was out there, all of it, just beyond that damn door that just kept shoving itself further and further and further—_  
  
Dean started awake. Cas was pressed close to him, a warm hand on his stomach, breath soft on his ear.  
  
“C’mon, Dean, it’s okay, it’s okay, c’mon. It’s okay, Dean. Just a dream. You’re okay.”  
  
“Sammy,” he gasped.  
  
“Sam’s okay too. Sam’s safe. You’re safe.”  
  
He shuddered and opened his eyes. Cas was holding him, as steady and calm as always, rubbing his stomach in warm circles.  
  
“You haven’t dreamed in awhile,” he said softly.  
  
“Yeah. Well.” Dean gasped, embarrassed by how much he was sweating, how hard he was breathing. “I’m dreamin’ now.”  
  
Cas kissed his t-shirt covered shoulder lightly. “Which one was it?”  
  
“The hall dream. From the home.”  
  
“You haven’t had that in—” Cas bolted upright, eyes wide. “Your necklace is gone.” Dean couldn’t help it—he laughed.  
  
“Jesus, Cas. You say that like my eyes went missing.”  
  
“You _never_ take off your necklace.”  
  
“I can think of a few occasions I have.” Cas slapped his arm.  
  
“Don’t be dirty. Where is it?”  
  
“I loaned it to Sammy.”  
  
“Loaned?”  
  
“Passed. It was his turn.”  
  
“Turn,” Cas said, in that automatic way that made Dean think _this does not compute._  
  
“I ever tell you how I got it?” Cas shook his head. “Sammy gave it to me the day they split us up. Never seen it before, but here I’m going in one van and him in another, and he comes running at me holding it out and babbling that as long as I hold onto it, we’ll see each other again. No matt **e** r what happens or how long it takes. Dumbest shit I ever heard,” he smiled, warmth and affection full in his voice. “Two weeks later, I’d busted us both out. Yeah, Dad could suck, but group homes were way worse. At least, together, we had a chance.”  
  
“And...if you loan it to him, it means you’ll see him again?”  
  
Dean rolled away, pretending to be tired and nonchalant. “I don’t know, man. He was a kid. Rattling on about having faith in faith or some shit.”  
  
Cas had no doubt that Dean knew exactly what his brother had said, he but Dean never did divulge intimate moments easily. That was fine with Cas. He was equally awkward discussing them. “You never really told me how you ended up separated.”  
  
“This dumbass Priest called CPS. We were crashing at his. I should have gotten us the hell out of there, but I hadn’t slept while Dad was on his bender, and by the time I was up it was too late.”  
  
“Is this the same Priest you and Sam used to call when you needed stitches?”  
  
“Yeah. First time I saw him after the CPS mess I called him a dick and told him to fuck off, but Sam went running to him one night when I had a concussion, and he was around for awhile after that. Patched us up and the lot.”  
  
“Do you keep in touch with him?”  
  
“He got transferred. But right before he did, Dad used Sammy’s noggin’ for batting practice, and while he was under for a few days...let’s just say I told old Jim to fuck off for good.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“’Cause he was being dicktastic, that’s why.” He sighed, relaxing into Cas’ reassuring hand. “Dad was sober ‘till September after they took us. A whole lot of promises and tears and the like. I always fell for it. Not Sammy.”  
  
Cas rubbed absently at Dean’s shoulder for a moment. “Dean...you’re not thinking of jail-breaking Sam out of Rosemount, right?”  
  
“No!” Even Dean didn’t believe that one. “No. I mean...yeah. But I’ve heard the spiels. I know I can’t.”   
  
“This is what we’ve wanted from him. For so long—”  
  
“I _know_ all right? I’m a Goddamn enabler or whatever. I just...it’s fuckin’ killing me. Sometimes, this shit is so endless, I just—” his voice cracked.  
  
“I know,” he soothed, laying down and resting his chin on Dean’s shoulder, rubbing his stomach once more. “I know. It’s hard for me too.”  
  
Dean wiped desperately at his eyes. “God...I’m sorry, man. This is...not what you signed on for.”  
  
“Stop it. I want him to get help too. I’ve worried about him too.”  
  
“I know. But...I should’ve warned you. We’re friggin’ cursed.”  
  
Cas squeezed his bicep. “Dean...I haven’t heard from my father in almost three years. The only brother that still speaks to me is Gabriel. If I were to fall ill...” Dean reached down and gently pressed the hand on his stomach. “This isn’t what you wanted either. You wanted Sam to go to law school and get married. We both wanted a family free of arguments.  
Maybe we both overreached. But I don’t want to be anywhere else, or _with_ anyone else.”  
  
“Me neither,” Dean assured, rubbing Cas’ knuckles with his thumb.  
  
“I can live with that,” Cas assured him, holding him tight. “I won’t leave you, Dean.”  
  
 _I’m not gonna leave you, Sammy._ Dean had promised that while Sam had lain on the kitchen floor, blood pooling under his head. He’d sworn he’d be there every painful step. And he _had_ been. And now he couldn’t. And it went against every instinct he had, everything he _was_ , not to rush to his brother and try and fix it all. The greatest gift he could give Sam was leaving him to fend for himself: Cas had explained that to him. And, though it was driving him mad, he was slowly beginning to accept that he had had a part to play in all this, and he was going to have to own it from afar.  
Dean turned, pushed an arm under Cas’ head, and rolled over him, bringing their mouths together. Cas opened up, welcoming him in, one hand stroking through his hair and over his neck while the other slid under his shirt to rub the bare skin of his back.  
  
“It’s alright,” Cas whispered when they seperated, “it’ll be alright. I’m here, Dean.”  
  
Sometimes, Dean forgot just how wonderful it was to love someone who didn’t _have_ to love you back. And maybe Cas was crazy and stupid for doing so. But Dean wouldn’t trade his doctor, or his brother, for anyone or anything. Even all the peace on earth.   
  


***

  
Cas realized he needed to do something to prove to Sam he's family. He didn’t know how to fit Dean and Sam's definition--he can't fathom any of his brother's using their own bodies to warm one another, barring a life and death situation (and even then, he imagined the search for some able-bodied woman would occur before one would begrudge) and the silent, seamless intimacy between Sam and Dean intimidates him to no end.  
  
But he loved them--both of them. In that horrid, hopeless, helpless way of all the movies Dean hates. He wants to be a great brother to Sam as much as he wants to be a great partner to Dean. He's terrified he won't manage as either.  
  
After his shift, he swings by the center. It's mid-afternoon and not visiting hours, but he shows his credentials and mentions Alan's name and manages to get past the desk and up to Sam's room. The younger Winchester is lying on his side, staring at the window, eyes wet and swollen. He doesn't turn when Cas ventures in, not even when he sits on the bed and lays a tentative hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Hi, Sam," he chanced.  
  
The younger man stirred, a hand fisting his necklace. "Is Dean gonna come back?"  
  
"Sure. Soon as his shift's over and visiting hours start. I just thought...I'd stop by. See if you wanted him to bring anything."  
  
"Is he okay?”  
  
Cas frowned. "He's fine, Sam. Just working."  
  
"He could have gotten hurt on the way to work. Or at work. Have you talked to him?"  
  
Cas swallowed. He doesn't know how to deal with this--he wonders if he should have tried. "I talked to him not twenty minutes ago, at the end of my shift. He's just fine.”  
  
"Is he mad at me?"  
  
"No, Sam."  
  
"Has he told you? When you leave...do you think...would you tell me if he changed his mind?"  
  
"Changed his mind?"  
  
"And doesn't want to see me anymore."  
  
Cas thought of Dean crying in his arms until late in the night, roiling in guilt at having had to leave his physically ill, emotionally fragile brother alone, and can't, for the life of him, grasp where Sam gets these ideas.  
  
"He's forgiven you, Sam," he says gently. "He only wants you to be well, you know that. No one is more important to him than you."  
  
Sam's breath hitches and he closes his eyes. "M'sorry," he whimpers.  
  
"Why? For what?"  
  
"I--I wanted--you're--" a tear slid out from under a closed lid. "I kill everything I love. I'll kill you and Dean."  
  
“Of course you won’t. I know you’re very sick right now, and can’t see it, but you will, Sam. You’ll see that you weren’t responsible for Jess or Maddy or your father.”  
  
“I’m so cold. I can’t stop being cold.”  
  
Cas could swear his heart almost shattered. He took a deep breath, stood, walked to the other side of the bed, and lay down behind him, smoothing his hair as he'd seen Dean do. It was more than a little awkward: even in his bony, fragile state, Sam was still a much larger man than Cas, and Cas had never...well... _held_ anyone but Dean, and his feelings then were worlds away from his feelings now.  
  
Except...there was a bit that felt very familiar. There was the desire to help, to belong, to comfort and accept. There were his own fears of rejection, the loneliness of isolation, the terror of failure. Dean shared these feelings: but Dean didn’t run. Dean had never run. He looked Sam’s pain square on, even with his own weaknesses. Dean was flawed, but he knew his flaws and accepted them as a part of himself. Cas could do the same. Cas _longed_ to do the same.  
  
"It's okay, Sam," he whispered. "We love you. You can't do anything that will make us _not_ love you."  
  
"I don't want to be alone."  
  
"You won't," he soothed, hand moving over his friend's head once more. "I promise to always be here for you. Even if Dean can’t. I’ll do all I can in his stead.”  
  
Sam’s breath hitched. “I’m so sorry, Cas...”  
  
“I know you are. I’ve forgiven, you, Sam. I just want you to be well.”  
  
“I don’t think I ever will.”  
  
“Of course you will. With time, you will. I know it’s hard to believe, but we’re you’re feeling is a natural process your body needs to go through. You’re purging everything that doesn’t belong and replacing it with what does. It will take time, but your body will work with you to rebuild everything you remember being before all this started.”  
  
“I’m cold. I’m... _weak_ , Cas.”  
  
“That’s why you’re here, Sam. To rest, where it’s safe, where there’s people to protect and care for you. When you begin to eat normally, and move again, you’ll see: your body will respond faster than you think possible. You’ll gain strength. And as your body strengthens, your mind will too. Your mood will lift. And I’ll be here. Me and Dean both. All we want is for you to be well.”  
  
“But...” Sam sobbed. “You shouldn’t have to. You’re not my brother.”  
  
“I’d like to be,” Cas said gently. It was scary saying it: and eerily similar to something he’d said to Dean, ages ago, when Dean had shoved him playfully and grinned, clearly flirting _dude, you’re not my boyfriend._  
  
Dean hadn’t exactly started crying when he said it...but Dean wasn’t Sam and Sam wasn’t Dean, and love, however strong, came in many different forms. And even when it was hard, Cas had learned to hold onto it, tight as he could, whenever it offered itself. And he wasn’t about to let go now.  
  


***

  
Cas woke feeling warm and sleepy. Sam was breathing softly under his arm. Dean was standing by the bedside with a grocery bag and raised eyebrows.  
  
“Something you want to tell me?” he asked.  
  
Cas groaned. “I...fell asleep?”  
  
“In Sam’s bed.”  
  
Cas felt his cheeks suddenly burn. “He was struggling. I was trying to...”  
  
“No, no, I get it. You got off work and felt the need to swing by to spoon with your boyfriend’s little brother.” Dean’s green eyes glittered with amusement.  
  
“Screw you,” Sam grumbled from somewhere under his hoodie. Cas grinned: it was the closest to _Sam_ they’d heard in months. The younger Winchester’s head emerged from under his sweatshirt to glare at Dean. “I was cold.”  
  
“Sure. And Cas is the perfect heating pad. I get it. I know what it’s like on those cold winter nights—”  
  
“No—brother—sex!” Sam snapped. Dean smiled warmly down at him, smoothed his hair back with one hand and reached into the bag with the other. “Brought you creamy tomato soup with cheddar, broccoli, carrots, and beef bits.  
Because I’m the best brother alive.”  
  
“And you got a bacon cheeseburger?” Sam teased.  
  
“I’ll have _you_ know, that I got a fried chicken with chili and cheese sandwich on a toasted vocatia.”  
  
“Foccachia.”  
  
“I don’t speak Italian, smartass. I just know it’s damn good.” He tossed his brother a wink and pulled out a plastic container of soup, a roll, a small pack of butter, and his sandwich. “And for the professional health nut of the family: a hummus and veggie wrap and a large black coffee. Because never sleeping is what makes the heart grow stronger.”  
  
“You’re a riot,” Cas grumbled, sitting up.  
  
“Of course, sleeping with your boyfriend’s little brother makes—”  
  
“Your little brother puke,” Sam mumbled, cracking the lid of the container and stirring with his plastic spoon. “There’s rice.”  
  
“You like rice.”  
  
“I know.” Sam dropped the spoon. Dean shifted onto the bed, took his brother’s hand in his own, guided it back to the spoon, and stirred together.  
  
“It’s just soup, Sammy. You’ve made it for me,” he murmured. “You gotta eat again, kiddo. C’mon. We’ll do it together.”  
He looked meaningfully at Cas. “The three of us. Dinner and a movie.”  
  
“Movie?”  
  
“Well, okay, not a movie, because no TV. Dinner and...enthralling conversation.”  
  
“Starring Dean Winchester.”  
  
“Starring Dean fuckin—”  
  
“Stop, you know I hate that word!” Cas snapped. Sam chuckled.  
  
“It’s pretty much the only adjective he has in his vocabulary, Cas.”  
  
“Don’t remind me,” Cas sighed, but smiled at Sam.  
  
“Look at you two. All cozy in bed, grinning away—”  
  
“There’s something _wrong_ with you,” Sam barked.  
  
“ _I’m_ not the one who just walked in on my brother and boyfriend in an intimate moment.”  
  
“Wha—Dean, yes you are. You got it backwards.”  
  
“So, you admit it _was_ an intimate moment.”  
  
“I _hate_ you,” Sam groaned.  
  
“I know you do. That’s not gonna get you out of eating that soup. Or hearing this story. Guess who came into the garage today?”  
  
Dean may have put on his perky, cheerful, ever-resilient self, but Cas saw the dark circles around his eyes, and refused to ignore the fact that Dean was half feeding Sam dinner, guiding his hands back and forth from the container and offering napkins when he spilled.  
  
And, when Sam’s hand faltered, Dean’s was right there. Broad and strong and firm. Reassuring. Guiding his younger brother along until he reached what it was he needed, and making sure he took away what he had to in order to sustain them both.  
  
When the nurse’s told them visiting hours were over, Cas watched Sam for signs of panic, but he just swallowed and looked up a little wetly at his brother. Dean had gathered up their trash and playfully fluffed Sam’s pillows, knocking him lightly in the head until his brother let out a petulant _“Dean_!” that sounded so childlike Cas had to smile.  
  
“I’ll be back tomorrow, bud, okay? You hang tight until then. Maybe we’ll try and get you up and mobile, huh?”  
  
Sam nodded, lowering his gaze. Dean’s expression softened, and he cupped Sam’s head lightly and pressed a quick, almost playful kiss on top of his hair, then took Sam’s hand in his own and guided it up to the amulet.  
  
“You hang tight,” he repeated, tucking the small face inside his brother’s palm. Sam nodded, and even managed a little smile. Dean patted Sam’s pillow and adjusted the blanket over him as he lay back. Cas snatched up the stuffed monkey that had fallen to the floor and placed it next to Sam’s chest.  
  
“Here’s Peanut,” he said with a smile.  
  
“Dude, that thing is fugly,” Dean smirked.  
  
“I like him,” Sam grinned, hugging him with his free arm. “He kinda looks like you.”  
  
“These features could never be captured in fluff.”  
  
“It’s true,” Cas sighed. “You’d need razor-wire for your elbows.”  
  
Sam grinned as Dean let out an indignant “hey!”  
  
“When we were kids, Dean had me watch _It_ with him. I slept in his bed for a good month after that. He elbowed me so many times I made him wear elbow pads.”  
  
“Worst friggin’ four weeks of my life,” Dean grumbled. “You made me sit in the damn bathroom with you while you showered too. Dad definitely thought he was on the way to grandkids with hooves at that point.”  
  
“Why on earth would you show him _It_?” Cask asked.  
  
“Because I thought it was funny!”  
  
“He said...’look, Sammy, there’s a clown on the cover. It can’t be bad.’” Sam chuckled at the memory. “I was literally sitting in his lap halfway through.”  
  
“Didn’t have my own bed for a month.” Dean huffed. “And forget McDonalds. He still tears up when Ronald comes on.”  
  
“Not true.”  
  
“My brother Lou is scared of clowns,” Cas said. “Gabriel told me the older boys were at a summer camp one year and a clown was there for an evening rec night. Lou apparently threw a volleyball at him and started screaming ‘rape’ when he got too close. Our mother was mortified. Gabriel found it hilarious, of course. I believe Michael did too.”  
  
Sam smiled. “I think I’d like your brother Lou. We could start a support group.”  
  
“Dude, every time you tell that story you add another brother,” Dean griped. “I can’t keep them all straight.”  
  
“It’s quite simple, Dean. There’s—”  
  
A woman made a dramatic throat-clearing in the doorway. “Didn’t y’all hear visiting hours are _over_?” an attractive, short, slightly plump, woman said.  
  
“They were just saying bye, Missouri,” Sam said.  
  
“’Bye Missouri’?” Dean snapped. “What the hell is that, an emo country song?”  
  
“Let me guess,” the woman said. “You’re Dean.”  
  
“And you’re the visitation Gestapo, I get it. Look, like he said, we’re on our way.”  
  
“Dean,” Sam hissed, “ _she’s_ Missouri. My primary therapist.”  
  
“Your therapist is a woman? Named after a friggin’ _state_?”  
  
“Dean...she can hear you,” Cas reminded him. Missouri cocked an eyebrow and crossed her arms.  
  
“I’ll be in charge of family therapy too,” she said. “Which, in case you forgot, starts Thursday.”  
  
“Oh.” Dean tried for his most charming smile. “Well, you’ll have to forgive Cas here for not introducing himself. He’s awkward with strangers.”  
  
Cas glared at him. Sam was grinning like a Cheshire cat, one hand still clutching the amulet, watching his elder brother squirm.  
  
“Cas,” Missouri smiled, holding out her hand. “Sam’s told me wonderful things about you. Apparently you stopped his panic attack the other day.”  
  
Cas accepted her hand and squeezed lightly. “I’m glad I could help. I’m glad you’ll be a part of his treatment team.”  
  
“I’m glad too.” She smiled warmly at Sam, then looked sternly at Dean. “As for you, I’ve a few things to say, but I’ll wait to we’re all in session. Now scoot. This is Sam’s time with me.”  
  
“Right,” Dean said, flustered. “See you tomorrow, Sammy.”  
  
“His name’s ‘Sam,’” Missouri snapped. “He’s a big boy, you know.”  
  
“Sam,” Dean grumbled. Cas looked a little worriedly at the younger Winchester, and then back to Missouri, who rolled her eyes and gave him an affectionate wink. Cas smiled at Sam as he followed Dean out the door.  
  
“Well...she’s gonna be a bitch,” Dean huffed, straightening his jacket and stomping petulantly down the hall. Cas fell into step dutifully beside him, still cherishing the sight of Sam’s smile, and thinking, maybe, she was going to be just what they needed.  
  


***

  
  
Sam was sitting up, in sweats, a t-shirt, hoodie, socks, and sneakers, all put on by himself. He’d showered. He’d brushed his teeth. He’d forced himself to get up and go to the nurse’s station for meds, instead of having them be brought in.  
  
He hadn’t yet made it to group or individual therapy...but Alan said it was okay. That it may take time. That he was there for him to get it.  
  
Like he was there now.  
  
“You ready?” he smiled, and crossed the room, offering his arm.  
  
“I’m not a southern belle,” Sam chuckled, hooking his elbow in Alan’s.  
  
“Nope. But you’re still gonna humor me and let me escort you to the dance floor, huh?” He helped him to his feet. “Just until I’m sure you can do the whole two legs thing without dropping.”  
  
Sam smiled back. Alan had told him, quite calmly, that no physician chose this life without losing someone they loved down the path he’d taken. He’d never defined who, but he’d made it all too clear that he believed in recovery, and believed he could aid in it, and Sam trusted him.  
  
“You sure this isn’t interrupting anything? I mean...do you have anywhere to be?”  
  
“I penciled it in. I’ll deal with what I have to after,” Alan said, leading Sam toward the elevator.  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“Sam, you’re gonna have to, slowly, weed that out of your vocabulary, buddy. You don’t have to apologize for people lending a hand when you need it. Neither does your brother.”  
  
The elevator doors opened. Alan gently coaxed him forward, hit the first floor button, and put an arm around him to help steady his sudden dizziness as they descended. “You’re a good guy, you know that? I’ve seen all types through here, and I don’t say that to everyone. You don’t see it, but the rest of us do. That’s why you want to show it off, huh?”  
  
“No.” Sam blushed. “I don’t want to...show off. I just...wanted to...show I was willing. I was working.”  
  
The elevator doors opened. Alan smiled. “And we’re gonna. Okay? So when the going gets tough, you remember this. How you were willing to stand, even feeling like a steaming pile of crap, to make everyone else feel good. You hear me, Sam? There are times I have to be resigned in letting someone go, but you’re not one of them. You’ve got way too much strength on your side to just cave in to. So hold tight. We’re gonna pull you through.”  
  
Sam nodded and straightened his shoulders. Because yes, he was still shaking, and thin, and pale. And yes, he was barely recovered, and cripplingly depressed and anxious, and deeply terrified of the future.  
  
But he was also a brother. A once awesome student. A once awesome friend. A once awesome _partner_. And if Dean and Cas and Alan believed those qualities still lay, dormant, inside him, than he was going to fight to get them back, fight to get Dean and Cas back, fight to get his _life_ back. He owed them that much.  
  
He stood beside Alan, trying as hard as he could to channel all of the Old Sam he knew how, into his features then. Tried his best to smile, to straighten up, to lean a little less on Alan and a little more toward Dean when he and Cas came through the doors.  
  
“Hi guys,” he said, smiling. Dean stopped short, disbelief fading to joy. Cas smiled and laid a reassuring hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I thought...we could eat in the cafeteria tonight.”  
  
Dean smiled. Cas smiled. It had been weeks--nearly seven, counting the last day Sam had seen them before fleeing to street, to right now--since they'd smiled, the three of them, at the same time. Cas to Dean to Sam to Dean to Cas to Sam. Maybe it was weird. Maybe he was still screwed up. Maybe they all were. But they were brothers, somehow. They were family. And when Alan released his arm and let him go toward them, he knew there'd be a day they'd reap its rewards.


End file.
